A Scandal in Summer Camp
by Dante Pierre
Summary: Young!Sherlock is sent to camp against his will. So, he decides to escape.


**Here's another one-shot that was written over the summer. Hope you like it and remember to leave a review! c:**

**-Dante Pierre **

* * *

><p>The warm breeze flew through Sherlock's dark hair, ruffling it even further. The boy ran a hand through his hair, and turned his eyes to the sky. It was a clear day, small fluffy clouds dotting the blue expanse of sky above. It was quite a beautiful day, even Sherlock could agree on that. At this thought, a small smile began to creep onto his face.<p>

"SHERLOCK!" came the sound of the voice of his older brother, Mycroft. Sherlock turned his smirk into a frown and rolled his eyes.

"What is it, Mike?" he replied, emphasizing the nickname his Mother gave his sibling. An angry huff could be heard from behind him.

"For the last time, Sherlock, you can't bring a sword to summer camp!"

"What if I want to?"

"You can't-"

"Yes I can."

"NO YOU CAN'T, WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES!" this time it was a different voice, his Mother's. The raven-haired boy sighed.

"Fine, Mummy." he called back. He would still manage to smuggle the weapon with him to camp. It was made of wood, so it wasn't particularly dangerous. He had promised himself to only use it in emergencies.

"I'm going to be a pirate." he mumbled. A loud rumbling sound was heard from down the road.

"That'll be Father." Mycroft spoke from a much closer distance than last time. Sherlock sighed again and cast his cerulean eyes back up.

"I still don't see why I have to go to summer camp!" he argued. In his Mother and Father's eyes, they were liberating him from the confines of a summer spent indoors, performing countless experiments and reorganizing his sock drawers. But of course, the boy was to be dragged away from his 'perfect' summer by his Father, who had pulled up in the family car, a large back machine, with an equally large engine. The journey to summer camp began, and Sherlock still had a frown on his face.

"I see that you are single, and you live by yourself. Your limp suggests a recent injury, maybe from falling down the stairs, probably tripping on something from the countless things you keep in your flat. Slightly rumpled clothes, you haven't washed them, and they're quite old. You don't have enough money to buy a new outfit, let alone a hat, which is why you borrowed one from your sister, Abigail. Your Mother doesn't approve of your lifestyle and refuses to help you out financially. She shuts you out in an attempt to influence you into getting a job and making money in order to speak to her again, but you haven't caught on yet. This is why you rely on your siblings, most often Abigail."

A long, dense silence followed Sherlock's deductions of the camp counselor.

"Oh don't look at me like that, go back to wallowing in your own filth." he continued, and turned quickly. This camp could turn out to be fun…in a sense. The camp counselor spoke up from behind him.

"How did you know all that?" the fat man asked. Sherlock turned and stared at him again. He was short, sweaty and had quite the florid face. Out of the corner of his eyes, Sherlock could see the other campers casting furtive glances at him. Serves them right, he knew that most of them had planned on raiding his bunk later for money, of which, of course, he had none.

"The science of deduction." he deadpanned, and turned for the second time. This time, he made his way back to his cabin and crashed on his bunk. The boy put his hands together and put them under his chin, deep in thought. He quickly began formulating a plan to leave this horrid prison. In order to escape, he would have to accumulate several ladders and a lock. The ladders would be used to place between roofs and climb between them, and the lock would be used to lock the camp gates…from the outside. Of course, he would have to factor in the possibility of being caught, so he'd have to have someone to cover for him back at camp. He cracked open his eyes and peered around the small cabin. A boy with dark brown hair stood in the corner carving his name into the wall, a small mousey looking boy was crying on the bunk opposite…and lastly, a boy with short blond hair stood by the door with his bags. The blond boy looked slightly upset, as his eyes were ringed with red from crying, and every few seconds he sniffed. Sherlock knew this boy came from a poor family and wanted to be in the army when he got older. Sherlock also knew his name by looking at the tags on his bag, John Watson.

"John."

"Yes."

"Are you awake?"

"No."

"…"

"Actually yes, I'm awake, what do you want, Sherlock."

"…"

"What."

"I'm going to escape this place…tonight."

"Oh."

"So…" Sherlock paused, listening to the others in the cabin, making sure they weren't awake.

"Why are you telling me?"

"I need you to cover for me."

"Alright."

"So…I can leave and if anyone asks, you'll make up an excuse?"

"I said alright, Sherlock, just leave me alone now!"

"Fine."

Sherlock felt the cool night air hit his face and he glanced backwards. He had been trekking through the woods for about a half-hour, and so far no one had come to stop him. Sherlock knew that was partly because he had glued all the main cabin doors shut, and he hoped they would adhere for long enough. He was currently nearing the camp gates, and he fiddled with the large padlock he carried in his left hand. A twig snapped. Sherlock widened his eyes and looked backwards, and then back in front. A shape loomed up in the woods ahead of him. The shadow was distinctly that of a man, and Sherlock sighed. It was probably a camp counselor, out for a late night walk. A worthy adversary. If he had to, Sherlock would fight him. He had his wooden sword with him, and he wasn't afraid to use it.

The light of dawn peeked over the horizon. Sherlock's face stung a little, from the fight with Howard, the caretaker at the camp. The pirate sword had proved to be a good investment. However, Howard had wanted to fight and came at him with zest. Sherlock had no choice but to defend himself. Looking back to the distance, the young boy widened his pale eyes. The sun would rise soon, and Sherlock had no idea what to do. He had escaped quite easily, and was sitting on a hill overlooking the nearest town. There was no doubt he was missed, and he wondered what excuse John had come up with to cover for him. Hopefully a good one. Sherlock sat on the hill for a little while before he decided to let someone know that he had daringly escaped from the wooden prison his parents had placed him in. Maybe he could call Mycroft and boast.

"Hello?"

"Hello there Harold, It's me, Sherlock."

"It's Howard…SHERLOCK? HOLMES? YOU BETTER GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!"

"No." Sherlock said into the phone with a smirk.

"YOU BETTER COME BACK RIGHT NOW."

"No."

"Well…It's easy enough to figure out where you are considering you are calling from a pay phone."

"…"

_click._

Of course he had to have used a pay phone. He always made a mistake. The young detective put his face into his hands and groaned. The car lurched over a bump on the highway. Sherlock slowly looked up to see scenery passing by quickly as his parents drove him home in silence. They of course had been mad, but they had expected his escape. Sherlock was secretly glad he had been found. Now he could do it all over again next year.


End file.
